


abyssinia

by stardustardie



Category: Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse (2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/M, Oh also!, alrighty let's hope i get this done well, except for there's a little bit of a time gap between you and noir, like 50000x AU, maybe 300-800 words to start but let's see, people were so nice and i got fired up, shortish chapters, you better believe its happening again
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-23
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-09-25 06:19:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17116049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardustardie/pseuds/stardustardie
Summary: In his universe, it’s 1933, and the world is greyscale, and soulmates are connected through dreams.His soulmate is from a world of color, and wears strange clothes, and says she’s from 2018.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> some things!
> 
> 1) a soulmate au like this was the first thing that popped into my head when it came to writing for noir - it was just not the first thing i wrote, hah.  
> 2) in this AU, soulmates visit each other through shared dreams until they find each other in real life. which will be a little bit of a problem in this case, i realize. welp.  
> 3) shortish chapters to start, probably! i don't want to get burned out writing but i was so encouraged by you guys that i just wanted to take the plunge now, haha. feel free to yell at me if i get distracted, pfft.  
> 4) the title is 30s slang! "abyssinia" is short for "i'll be seeing ya," which i think is really fitting.  
> 5) i'm turning up noir's brood a lil bit
> 
> okay, that's all! thank you, take care, ilu!

As the Nazi-punching, egg-cream-drinking, justice-seeking Spider-Man, Peter Parker considered himself a stoic. Repression was woven into his bones, along with bitter world-weariness and morals that made him sick. Men like him were destined to see the world from impossible vantage points, unable to connect to the masses with their normal lives. Men like him were wrought from a loveless and harsh material, stronger than steel, colder than ice.

Men like him did not _get_ soulmates, did not _get_ the joy that came from seeing one’s other half when they closed their eyes, the blissful endeavor to track down their mate in real life through their shared dreams.

He was put on the earth to solve cases and put bullets between the eyes of those who would hurt others. He wielded pain like a sword and used it to protect the innocent. Peter Parker was alone in the world with only his gun and his spider senses, and there was no one for him to long for at night.

At least, that was what he thought.

Then one day he closed his eyes, bone-tired and expecting nothing but darkness, and he opened his mind’s eye to a world of sights and sounds and _vibrancy_ , and a girl staring at him with a thunderstruck expression that screamed confusion.

_You and me both, kid,_ ran wry through Peter’s skull, even as he found himself curled up on the ground to ward off the sudden sensory overload. _You and me both._

 


	2. oof

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter's got a soulmate. The realization doesn't go over well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> still getting the hang of writing noir (rip)
> 
> feedback is much appreciated, y'all! thanks ilu!!

_Studies of soulmates’ shared dreams over the years have yielded the following two rules of interaction:_

  * _The setting of the dream is up to whichever soulmate falls asleep first; generally, dreamers choose their own homes as the location when they are first navigating the control they have over their own dreams. (Interestingly, lucid dreamers have little to no problems with this learning curve, able to produce any setting and change to the setting that they desire, without instruction.)_
  * _Experienced and lucid dreamers are able to manipulate their environments as they see fit. However, it’s important to note that the majority of control lies with the soulmate asleep longest. (It is common for the ‘guest’ soulmate to change their own clothing or other personal qualities in-dream to best suit the ‘host’ soulmate’s location, but their influence seems to stop there.)_



_From the International Bureau of Soulmate Research, ©1978-2018_

 

* * *

 

Peter Parker was no stranger to pain. In his years as the Spider-Man and even before, he had endured trauma that would have lesser men begging for mercy. The amount of times he’d had his head bashed in by the goon of the week no longer mattered, it was such a frequent occurrence.

This was entirely different.

Having come from a world painted in varying shades of white, grey, and black, it had never occurred to Peter that there might exist anything else. This?

“Oh, good god,” he groaned aloud without entirely meaning to, fedora pulled low over his face, eyes squeezed tight, curled defensively in on himself like a porcupine. He had half a mind – the half that wasn’t still screaming at the harsh and unexpected sensory input – to feel embarrassed at the way he was laid out on the ground like a kid new to a fight, down for the count when no one had even laid a hand on him. The matches were one thing; _this_ was just feeling too much.

“Oh, man. Oh, oh no, are you okay?”

The voice was too gentle to be hostile, too scared to be an enemy’s, but it still put Peter on edge enough that he unholstered his pistol and aimed it right at the source.

He was rewarded with a sharp yelp and a hurried, _“Okay, okay, too bright for you?_ I’m sorry, I’m new to this, let me just… hold on, I’ll figure this out. Just got to think… ah! There we go!” The relief tinging the stranger’s voice had him lowering his gun _ever_ so slightly – frightened or not, a variable was a variable and he wasn’t taking any chances – and cautiously peeked out from the brim of his fedora. Slowly, enough for his eyes to adjust to any further visual attacks, but easier as he realized the world had gone dark. Well, dark _er_ ; there were odd variations in tone here and there, but he could see without going into shock. Always a good sign.

That assessment complete – for now – Peter turned his attention to where the muzzle of his gun still pointed. It was then that he realized fully the implications of the light, melodic voice and panicked demeanor: you were a young woman, unarmed, oddly clad, and obviously untrained.

And despite the pistol leveled at your chest, you were leaning forward and offering him a hand up.

Chagrined and more than a little affronted at himself, Peter holstered his weapon a bit faster than strictly necessary. Slowly, he stood on his own, only grasping your hand to give it a firm and earnest and more than a little awkward shake.

“Almost clipped you straight through the heart,” he said, unintentionally towering over you. “That’s my bad. Getting thrown into a place like this’ll do that do a man’s nerves, but it’s no excuse. You’re fine? Shaken up? Do you know where we are? I’m not sure but I’ll figure it out here in a moment.”

Your mouth, which had presumably opened earlier to parry his _my bad_ with an expression of forgiveness – _forgiving, waits for others to finish speaking,_ he added to his mental catalogue of you – closed after a couple seconds of hanging uselessly, trying to parse his words. A moment, two moments, and you nodded hesitantly, giving him the barest hint of a grin.

“Uh, hey, man, that’s fine. I mean, if I had a gun I’d probably have tried to shoot you too. Probably not, actually, never mind. I’m alright, though? Thanks for asking.” The corners of your mouth twitched upwards, thoughtfully, and you leveled a look at him. “And actually, this is… it’s, ah, my house. My mental _reconstruction_ of my house. You know what this means, right? About us?”

Embarrassingly, he would later recall that he did not, in fact, realize what it meant about the two of you. His mind had been so set in its beliefs and conformational biases that he had completely skipped out on what should have been the instant conclusion. _Sloppy, Parker,_ he would chide himself, brooding later on some rooftop alone. _The stress is catching up to you._

But then, in the moment, his confusion must have been palpable, because your face – delicate and open, like a true-and-proper lady of the silver screen – shifted in realization, and you let out a small _‘oh,’_ warmth dusting your cheeks.

The feeling of missing something crucial rankled at Peter, but just as he was about to begin grilling you anew, you cleared your throat and explained.

“Well, Mister, uh…”

“Peter. Peter Parker.”

“Mister Parker – I’m Y/N, by the way – wow, how do you explain this to someone when they’re not in the loop?” Your hands wrung themselves together – _nervous habit?_ – and you shifted on the balls of your feet, before seeming to steel yourself and looking the P.I. straight in the masked face.

“Mister Parker, _hi._ You’re in my dream because you’re my soulmate, and I’m yours, and I don’t really get the noir detective thing you’ve got going on but I think we can make it work with a little effort, so…”

Oh.

Oh, good god. He really _was_ slipping, and in more ways than one. Distantly, Peter became aware of his own heartbeat thundering in his ears, your face morphing into one of concern, his own internal monologue chanting that _this couldn’t be right, it couldn’t be right, men like him didn’t_ get _soulmates –_

And like a coward – like an _experienced P.I. who knew when to regroup and look over the clues_ , he corrected himself forcefully – he jumped to the conclusion that since he was _dreaming_ (since when was he dreaming? He didn’t _dream_ , he’d never _dreamt_ –), he was going to wake up and now was as good a time as any.

 

* * *

 

For your part, _“I’m going to need a minute. Or several. Sorry about the gun,”_ was all you got before your soulmate, before he – in a classic show of waking oneself up – dug his fingers into the opposite arm and blinked out of your dreamscape as if he’d never been there in the first place.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heckin' great detective work, there, Pete. 
> 
> (Or, Peter lets his preconceived notions get in the way.)

_Y/N_ , declared the notebook page, underlined twice and written in a rushed hand.

Underneath that was a series of bullet points, the fragmented notes and half-cooked theories that had been written down _seconds_ after Peter had bulleted out of his (normal, monochrome, not eye-searing) bed.

His fingers trembled imperceptibly; he could feel a thin sheen of sweat clinging to his skin and for a second he lamented the fact that he hadn’t had the energy to pull his coat off before collapsing for the night. No matter, though. What was a little discomfort in a world of suffering? When a key part of his philosophy _(men like him didn’t_ get _nice things)_ had crumbled not ten minutes before?

No. No, it was a trick. Had to be.

_(…Right?)_

Tightening his jaw, Peter forcibly buried the doubt. Doubt was a game-breaker and had gotten good people killed before on his watch. He couldn’t afford it, not even over something as trivial _(personal)_ as this.

Mood decidedly killed for good – though what else was new in this town? – he turned weary eyes onto the little notepad.

_Y/N_

  * _Young woman. Between 19-26 years old?_
  * _Seen in dream similar to those described by clients trying to find their soulmates._
  * _Not monochrome. Vibrant. Painful. Everything about her dreamscape seemed designed to hurt until she ~~fixed it~~ ~~for me~~ lowered the intensity._
  * _Nervous tics (shifting on balls of feet, wringing hands, stumbling over words). Certainly not a skilled manipulator/liar by any means._
  * _No observable combat skills. Too much compassion, more like. (Reached out hand to help me – a total stranger – onto my feet. Naïve at the best of times and downright suicidal here.)_
  * _Unusual clothing. Denim jeans (working clothes. Poor man’s clothes. Why were they so well-made?). Short-sleeved top (some unidentifiable hue). Scuffed shoes with haphazardly tied laces. Dressed like she’s got some dough, but for whatever reason chooses to spend it on looking like the common man._
  * _Said we were soulmates._



  * _Hallucination? Never dreamt before. Someone slip me something when I wasn’t paying attention? Impossible. I always pay attention._



 

  * _Loneliness, plain and simple. You’re cracked, manifested yourself a girl because you know there’s no one real here for you. But why would I suddenly start dreaming? Why the colors (for lack of a better word) that I’ve never seen before?_



 

In small letters at the bottom was the final bullet point.

 

  * _She wasn’t lying and she is your soulmate. But men like me don’t get soulmates._



 

God.

Peter scrubbed a hand over his face, feeling the prickle of irritation that crept up when he was going nowhere on a case. He was the Spider-Man, for crying out loud! An experienced P.I.! It shouldn’t have been so difficult, especially when he felt like he was staring the answer in its face.

_At least,_ his brain supplied, when the silence had dragged on too long. _At least she was a looker._

The slightest wave of warmth across his face at the thought had him slamming his head back down on the mattress. _God._

He needed a drink.

Or at least two egg creams.

 


	4. hhhhhhng

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Here’s a little break from our P.I. so we can meet the Reader. 
> 
> Also, I’ve been reading some noir short stories, so I’m going to try to switch up the narration on Peter’s side next chapter to reflect that. :D
> 
> Okay, let's go!

These were the things on your mind as you walked into the café you worked at.

  * You had a _soulmate_ , and he was, for all intents and purposes, a dramatic Al Capone-type with a Batman complex.
  * It had been two days since said soulmate had deigned to sleep; either that, or he was just that good at calculating your sleep schedule already.
  * You’d forgotten to pick up eggs at the grocery store. _Now_ how were you going to make that quiche?
  * The sunlight streaming through the windows gave the place a remarkably cheery feeling, the kind that attracted customers.
  * Forget the last two, because you had a _soulmate_ and that _soulmate_ was straight-up ghosting you.



“Whoa, who spit in _your_ coffee?”

That was your coworker, the laid-back girl who rarely did anything faster than absolutely necessary. Tanya, her name might have been. Tasha. Tori. _Something_ with a T – you could never remember the T names. Either way, you immediately schooled your expression into something less murderous, having not even realized that you could _make_ faces like that.

Huh. Guess finding your other half just improved your moods like that when they seemed to flat-out reject your existence within the first meeting.

“Ha,” you laughed a bit sheepishly, bringing a hand up to cover your face. “My bad, I haven’t been getting very much sleep lately.”

“Rough weekend?” Taylor’s voice carried a note of sympathy that had you smiling despite yourself. “Or are you sulking about how _alone_ you are again?”

Oof. First off, you didn’t _sulk._ Secondly, even if you did sulk, you had something of a right to – in this day and age, _no_ one had this much trouble finding their soulmates. Certainly no one had gone this many years without a single shared dream, either.

And then, to learn that you did have a soulmate, and he was more skittish than a particularly ornery horse?

It just rankled at you a little bit. That was all.

As if reading your thoughts, Trina folded her arms and, leaning across the counter, fixed you with a sagely look.

“Alright, so you’re a little bit different from the rest of us. So you don’t have your Prince Charming sweeping you off your feet and making the rest of us gag yet. It’s _gonna_ happen, alright? And you’re going to wish it didn’t, because before you know it, he’s going to be disturbing your sleep in the middle of the night to show you how good he is at _slam poetry_. And you’re going to let him! And you’re going to suffer!”

The obvious irritation at her own other half had you laughing despite yourself.

“But you still like him,” you said, “Despite the slam poetry.”

“Despite the slam poetry,” Tina agreed, sighing. “Now come on, finish prepping. We’re going to have people in any minute. And _stop_ sulking!”

What else could you say to that? “Aye-aye, captain.”

“Good.”

Three plain black coffees and a ristretto later, and worried thoughts about the man on the end of your red string settled, somewhat. They settled enough that you could grin genuinely and wave as your favorite customer came through the doors, the little bell chime heralding her grand arrival.

“May!” you exclaimed, already putting together a flat white just the way she liked. “The usual?”

“And a vanilla latte,” she confirmed. “My nephew’s finally found the time to stop by.”

“So you figure you should reward him, right?” you laughed. “Perfect. You’ll have him visiting every day soon enough.”

“That’s the plan.”

The hard-earned wisdom that May Parker wore constantly was what really drew you to her. She was almost like an aunt to you at this point, and like now, you sometimes had to physically refrain from calling her such – she wasn’t _actually_ your aunt no matter how many times you went over to care for the little succulent in her apartment when she was away.

“Well, you know you can always have me over if you’d like the company,” you said matter-of-factly. “No plant-sitting required.”

“I might have to take you up on it, if only to show Peter that I can have friends, too.” Good humor twinkled in the older woman’s eyes as she handed over a ten; you returned it with her change, the drinks, and a lighthearted goodbye.

 

These were the things on your mind as you settled in for your lunch break.

  * You had a soulmate.
  * Even a short conversation with May and the promise of hanging out with her was enough to bolster your mood.
  * Tachanka was probably right about things working out eventually – even if it weren’t the case and Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Goggled never came around to you, you’d learn to put up with him despite his broody nature.
  * You had a _soulmate_ , and you were going to perfect dreaming in dimmer colors so that he wouldn’t have another conniption, and you _were_ going to catch him asleep again soon.



Consciously, as you wiped down tables in preparation for the lunch rush, you decided that whatever issues your other half had, however long he avoided you, you’d try not to hold it against him. He was probably busy enough with his own issues – and you could hardly blame him for that.

Your own emotional maturity had you standing a bit straighter, and you smiled slightly.

_’Til next time, Mr. Capone._


	5. hng

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter’s on edge about you and probably hasn’t slept much, but he’s still a P.I. who does P.I. things.
> 
> Featuring OCs, references to OCs, and what is this?? Subplot? Oh, you must be kidding me.

As it so happened, Peter _was_ busy.

He sat in his office, mind racing and fingers tapping out the softest rhythm against his unmasked cheek as the client spilled the details of his dilemma. The client was a shorter man. Thin-haired, built like a boxer. A deep sort of wistfulness in his eyes that one wouldn’t expect from his type. _Steady hands,_ Peter noted. _Still posture. Controlled. Well-raised._ It was the demeanor fostered in well-off environments, a far cry from the twitchy, trigger-happy, shadow-born scum of the streets. _Far cry from scum like me_ , amended Peter, and resolved to keep that out of his written notes; pity parties got you nowhere.

“Details, Prynne,” the P.I. urged. His other hand clutched a fine cigar, offered by the other man, too well-intentioned a gift for him to wave away even though he didn’t like smoking. His notepad (turned to a new page, far from his ruminations on The Dream) lay open, ready for written sleuthing. “I need you to think back. When’s the last time you saw her? What’d she have on, did she say anything about where she was headed, little things like that – I need as much as you can give me if we’re gonna get her back.”

It was a classic, almost hackneyed line _– details, I need details!_ – but Peter had never encountered a client who didn’t respond to it. Chester Prynne was no exception.

A long, low sigh predated his words; it was the sigh of a man wracking his brains for the fifth time, but Peter had the sense that there were things he was missing. Better to shake it all out of Prynne now than to end up on the business end of a pistol, having missed a crucial piece of info from the get-go.

“My Ophelia,” said the greying man, boxer jaw working thoughtfully. _Fingers relaxing at the mention of his wife. Eyes going distant, working through some memory._ “Yes, I recall her outfit plain as day. Three days ago, done up in ermine and pearls – she loves wearing white, you see, prefers it to grey or black. It makes her forget that she was a street urchin as a girl, makes her feel pure. She had her hair coiffed, had her white satin gloves with the black trim… and she was going to visit her cousin Maria.”

_Ermine, pearls and satin. Distinctive garb, impossible to miss and just begging for an attack in the streets._ Peter’s eyes narrowed gently as he thought. Mulled over each word given to him, turned them over individually, searched for hidden meaning. _Former street rat, gone to visit a cousin._ Well, anyone could say they were someone’s cousin.

“You know Maria?” he asked after a bout of silence. The story sounded straightforward, but combined with the three-day disappearance, sang of something darker thrumming underneath. The feeling of wrongness only intensified when Prynne shook his head.

“Lia’s always said that she has too many cousins to keep track of. She always told me not to pry; that it was insensitive to the street families.” _Admissive tone. Sheepish. Respect for the wife’s privacy, too much respect, bordering on naivety._ “I can’t tell you a thing about Maria, Mr. Parker, or if my wife even has a cousin named Maria.”

The entire relationship felt precarious to Peter, even without relationship experience of his own. It felt too much like Prynne knew nothing about the woman he married, and the P.I. knew enough about ignorance to know that it _killed._ Frequently. Messily.

(He grit his teeth slightly, forcing out thoughts of the man he let down, his greatest failure, a product of his not being fast enough or sharp enough or brave enough or–)

_No. Don’t like that. Focus, Parker._

“Alright,” he said, more to ground himself than to get Prynne’s attention. “I need you to tell me something. Ophelia, where did you meet her? Sounds to me like you don’t know a thing about her home life, Chester. Everything you’ve said about her smacks of trouble. What in god’s name possessed you to marry her in the first place?” The slightest sense of incredulity lined Peter’s words, and as he fixed his client with an attentive stare he half expected Prynne to shrink back, sheepish.

He didn’t.

_Straight-backed, jaw set, understanding in his eyes… for the last time, Parker, stop jumping the gun on conclusions._

Prynne’s words were simply spoken, almost tenderly.

“She’s my soulmate, Mr. Parker.”

Peter’s reply was maybe a couple degrees too close to defensive. Sloppy. For a minute there he let himself get caught up in a whirling dervish of thoughts, of hues bright and intense, of concern in the eyes of a young woman he’d never met in person. _Y/N_ , his mind supplied helpfully, and he brushed it off.

“Sounds like she’s got more unsavory connections than perks as a lover.”

“And it sounds to me like you don’t _understand_ ,” retorted Prynne, somehow maintaining the gentle wistfulness that came over him when he spoke of his gal. “Mr. Parker, you haven’t experienced the dream-sharing, have you? You don’t need to answer that; I can see it in your face. You’ve either never dreamt in your life, or you’ve never taken the time to really _look_ at your other half.”

_Don’t_ have _an other half,_ he was half-tempted to reply. _Men like me don’t get other halves._ But it seemed awfully stupid, awfully _naïve_ , to place his innermost concerns in the hands of a well-off client. He refrained, sensibly, and opted to listen.

“In this day and age,” Prynne said slowly, “to wed across social classes is the grandest faux pas a man can make. Even if the one in the other class is _yours._ There is a boundary between people as vast as the space between stars – but only if you let it be. And we didn’t.

“Ophelia is something else,” continued the fella, soft. “I can hardly describe it. When you meet your special one, you’ll know. But she was… vibrant. So full of light and sound that I could hardly bear it, at first. But we are connected, and I will brave anything for her, even if it is unsavory connections with the underworld of this societal cesspool.”

Peter was no stranger to _feelings._ Since becoming the Spider-Man, since combining his public sleuthing with the shadowy execution of justice, he’d become accustomed to the buzz in his head that signified danger, an imminent bullet rocketing toward his head, a dangerous lead in a case.

When it came to _emotional_ feelings, though, he could admit that he was a mess. Emotional responses didn’t free hostages or put down murderers. They were useless in his line of work. Superfluous.

So, understandably, he thought, he regarded the near-physical response to Prynne’s speech as a threat. Unknown, not understood, to be put aside for further questioning. The words danced in his mind moth-like, as if circling a flame with frenzied intensity.

_Vibrant_ , he almost mouthed physically. _Light and sound._ Whether it was intentional or not – and of course it wasn’t – the man had hit the nail right on the head when it came to describing _you._

(He did his best to avoid thinking about you lately; it was one meeting, one outlier of an experience that surely he could avoid again if he played his cards right. And yet, you seemed to seep back into his thoughts again and again. Curious. A novelty. A liability.)

_(Men like him didn’t get soulmates.)_

Peter twirled the unlit cigar in his hand, zeroing back in on Prynne’s face. Sentimental or not, he could agree with his client on one thing: society was a cesspool, and it wasn’t getting any better.

“I’ll take the case,” he said finally, aware that the silence was getting too thick. Prynne’s sigh of relief barely registered. “I’ll track down your dame; we can talk prices afterward.”

_And pump whatever hoods and monsters I’ll find on the job full of lead while I’m at it_ , he left unsaid. Better to leave the darker things unsaid, always. Those were things for Spider-Man to deal with and Peter to suppress, and never, ever for the public to hear.

If Prynne noticed the subtle shift of the P.I. into something less forgiving, he said nothing about it as he leaned over to shake his hand.


	6. hg

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You're not that scary up close. You might actually be a little helpful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Agh, this one did not want to be written! I might actually go back and fine-tune it a little bit later, asdghds. Sorry for the wait! Hopefully it's a smoother ride from here on out, haha.
> 
> I'm thinking of making updates a biweekly thing... think that sounds chill?
> 
> Thank you for reading, as always!!

Three days.

 

Barely three days passed before Peter collapsed at his desk, sprawled over city maps, scrawled testimonies, frustrated journal entries chronicling a distinct lack of progress.

He didn't even process his lapse in attention - not until he registered the muted, strange tones and odd decor of The Dream (clean lines; unusual; not a trace of the searing brightness from the first time). Upon realizing it, he bit back a curse.

 "You look awful," said an oddly familiar voice, from across the room. Before he could even begin to retort, though (some smart quip about the mask in the way) or seek a quick escape (stall, bury his curiosity, he had a case to solve, for god's sake, he could not afford distractions), you threw up your hands, averting your gaze as if dealing with a particularly unpredictable animal.

That almost dragged a chuckle out of him. He felt too heavy, tired and thoroughly inconvenienced to laugh, though.

 "Wait, don't leave on me!" _Tension in the shoulders_ , _rushed speech, deliberate stillness tailored to look non-threatening._ As if you, with your soft civilian demeanor and eyes that shone with a type of innocence, could be threatening to the hard-boiled detective.

 ( _It_ wasn't _threatening_ , he thought, frustrated. _It was_ wrong _. Nothing about it added up._ )

 At any rate, he couldn't wake up, as much as he wanted to; his right hand, surreptitiously tucked into his coat pocket, had been curled up into a fist, nails pressing crescents into the skin of his palm in an effort to replicate the first time he'd shocked himself awake. Nothing. A mild, faraway sense that _that should have stung_ , and he remained dead to the real world.

 When Peter chanced a furtive glance up at your face - _troubled; furrowed eyebrows, tight frown_ \- you met his gaze head on. And, strangely enough, when you said, "please," he could feel something in him give. Just a little. Just enough for him to nod, a reluctant thing.

 Well, hesitant as he was to entertain this - something wholly distracting and best examined when there wasn't a case to solve - you seemed taken by a rush of intense relief. Belatedly, Peter realized that it was relief on his behalf.

 "Oh, good. Good. I get that this whole... dream thing is a little weird," you exclaimed, hand going to your chest as you breathed visibly easier. A second later, your tone shifted into something marginally more chiding. "But _jeez_ , man, you can't just not sleep because you're scared of me!"

_Whoa, there._

 "You're about as scary as a kid with a spoon," Peter replied matter-of-factly. "I just happen to be a busy man. Crime doesn't take breaks - and neither can I."

 "Wow. I can't say I'm not kinda offended, but, uh... that's intense, man." He didn't miss the light kindling in your eyes as you processed. "Wait, crime? You're an investigator?"

 "Best private eye around. Got my ticket and everything."

 "That's so cool!"

 Peter's mouth twitched, ever so slightly, at the raw enthusiasm decorating your voice. Of course you'd think it was cool - it was. The thrill of standing on the edge of authority, taking control of the crime situation because the powers-that-be metered out justice with too slow and too faint a hand. But it was also sobering, the fact that nothing stood between society and total destruction except a single world-weary, bitter man, his superhuman abilities notwithstanding.

 "You're working on a case right now, aren't you? That's why you haven't been sleeping? You've had me worried, you know."

  _Inquisitive_ , Peter added to his mental catalog of you. _Borderline nosy. Cares way, way too much._

Out loud, he responded carefully. Instead of saying something stupid and revealing _(yeah, I'm working on a case, and it's driving me up the wall, and I'm stuck in a rut; I haven't hit the sack in a while now, partly 'cause of the case, mostly 'cause I don't know what to do with you and your worries and your questions and your_ being _)_ , he chose the noncommittal, vague route.

"I might be, but I also happen to believe in client confidentiality like nothing else. Maybe I'm just an insomniac, ever think of that?"

Your head tilt - _processing tic, open and interested body language, decidedly_ not _an endearing sort of curious_ , he told himself firmly - paired with a half-smile in such a way that broadcast playful skepticism. 

"Well, I believe the insomniac part - I mean, just look at you, you exude gruff loner Batman vibes! - and I get the confidentiality thing, but come on, it must be a tough one you're working on." You tapped your chin, once, twice, and let out a soft _'hmm.'_ "Okay, let's say that, hypothetically, you're in the middle of an absolute stumper of a mystery. You already talked to all the available witnesses?"

Oh, not only were you were fishing for information, you were going about it so obviously. You wouldn't last a day in the thick of the concrete jungle; not doing his job. But he decided to indulge you, just a little, if only because focusing on the procedures of crime-solving was far easier than focusing on the troubling notion of who exactly you were to him. (You were still a stranger, for god's sake. Peter Parker was many things, but he was absolutely not wet behind the ears.)

"Hypothetically, any private eye worth his salt would go for witness statements first."

Rapid-fire, you persisted.

"And you've cased all the joints your guy frequents, right? Or gotten a hold of all his records and messages and stuff through his family? I mean, not that I know if he's a victim or a perp, but hypothetically, I think that going for his personal records to get a feel of the kind of person he was and his dealings with others isn't a bad move."

Despite himself, Peter couldn't quite smother a half-smile, and took a half-second to be grateful that he had his face covered.

"Only bank robbers 'case joints' - sure you aren't some kinda redhot yourself?" Nothing about his intuition said you were, said you had it in you to be, that was for sure. Though you did apparently have a surprising amount of insight when it came to picking apart cases, haphazardly as you phrased your suggestions. _Intuitive_ , he thought. "But hypothetically speaking, a P.I.'d get the spots and correspondence squared away as soon as possible. What else've you got?" He wasn't sure when this became a quiz, but found that this sort of interaction was marginally smoother than anything else he could have dreamed of.

For your part, you seemed delighted at the conversation in a way that fascinated him a little bit; he'd never known a lady to take such an interest in his work. Not that he'd had many women close enough to do so. _Not that he ever would._

But your eyes absolutely blazed with a brand of invested light reminiscent of the retina-searing brightness of your initial dreamscape. (He still had to ask about that, he realized; _not the time, Parker,_ he mentally chided a half-second later.) It was then that he thought, fleetingly, that maybe you weren't such a bad conversation partner, a thought he smashed as soon as it consciously formed. Now was not the time to think ahead. Thinking ahead was a bad move no matter how he sliced it. 

"I think," you mused after a couple seconds, thoughtful, "that one of the important things is also determining the underlying motivator in a problem. You know, like in essays? How the driving persuasive force is logic, morals, or emotion? People always seem to tick in one of those ways. Like… like people who commit murder can fit in any one of those categories, and to figure it out you have to get a good profile on the person themselves. Then you can deduce what type they are. Are they killing to save someone, are they killing out of passionate anger, are they doing it because the alternative is less profitable? And that goes for any crime, really; after that I think you can generally group things based on whether the action is selfish or unselfish. That says the most of it all.” 

In hindsight, nothing you said was particularly groundbreaking or new to Peter. It was almost common sense, really; but it was the way you phrased things that had him looking at the case in new light.

You didn’t have all the facts. But he’d be hard-pressed to believe that you weren’t clever, and maybe that would endear you to him most of all.


End file.
